There’s one right now,
It’s drizzling outside
Rain that as the night assembles
Will surely turn to snow.
And behind that curtain
of a Wintery mix
Is shy pavement
And reserved red bricks.

The crazies are out, sure
I hear one yelling now,
But it’s fleeting.
Soon, the pavement again.
Night pavement, wet pavment,
And all the quiet that brings.

Quiet New York is as impressive as
the City loud.
It’s the quiet you hear
When you watch a dog sleep
Belly up, belly down.
And even more loud,
When you watch a street light change colors at night,
And no car is stopped beneath it.

It’s that type of quiet
That I hear now,
And when I go home
And they ask me how it was
I’ll say it was New York,
You know, really quiet.

There’s something about old men
With grocery bags,
That gets me every time.
This one favors his right leg as he teeters past
Carrying 70 or 80 years of life in those bags

They are dangling,
pointed edges sometimes hitting his calf.
His cloudy eyes aimed forward,
but he isn’t looking at anything.

I can see then what he doesn’t see,
Not objects, not limits, not anything named.
He doesn’t have to, to do what he does.
What he sees is what the world is missing
But it’s unlikely we’ll slow down.

You can see his limp
Is the pendulum that carries him
Until he is no more,
Until the sidewalk ends.

It doesn’t matter what’s in the bags,
That’s what he tells me with his gaze,
And then I see it,
Myself in old men like that
Not faster
But equally looking for purpose
In a world that doesn’t seem to need us.

on fall mornings in new orleans
i watch the dog unsuccessfully chase flies
and i weigh the differences between right and wrong

supposedly this is getting older
this is what adulthood brings

i remember very clearly
what right and wrong were in childhood
sharing right stealing wrong
hugging right hitting wrong

i find now the difficulty in growing up
is that all the lines that were drawn for us
diagramming everything we needed to know
fade like driveway chalk
with certainty, the diagram has changed
there are things you do for money
things you don’t for pride
and none of these things can be taught to children
as soon as you began to draw them out
the wind would take it like meaningless sediment

i’m left with chalk in my left hand
and that feeling you get, when you’re not all together behind a decision you’ve made
in my right.

i think of childhood all the time now
how gone it is
how the leftovers are there,
but untouchable,
an untapped oil reserve
something to protect and remember
but unusable
impossible to clench

should it be sad?
it feels like it should be sad
sometimes it is
but the fact that i can blink my eyes
and my entire life
is in the second gap leftover
after they open
tells me there is no past at all

Train Conductors Hats
In the 20th Century
Were a little funny
But I think kids looked up to them,
Wouldn’t be opposed to it as a life choice.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Ballerina.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Train conductor.

Now it’s two thousand and something
And as an adult it’s funny to see
The same conductors in their stiff hats
And serious faces.
Do children still aspire to be that?
Or has the same change occurred
for children’s dreams
as bulky TV sets
That you see on the side of the road now.

No one sets them out anymore
Out of charity.
“Do we throw it in the pond?”
The meadow-maker asks his wife,
Afraid of environmental issues
And the trashing of radioactive batteries.
He holds up too a bundle of phone chargers
and foam head sets from the 90’s.
“Recycling bin?”

“Tickets please!”
Shiny crinkling boots,
And you can tell he takes this very, very seriously
Something an older brother
may make fun of him for,
But he feels pride in the uniform,
And it doesn’t matter he’s tall
And isn’t good at basketball.

Does anyone else get nervous when he holds his hand out?
Once a cop followed me
For 15 minutes
And I had done nothing wrong
But had thought of 75 stories to get out of whatever he had on me.
He turned off before me
And I sped home.

Thanks for posting this. Most of the poetry I find on blogs is – well – there’s a reason it’s on a blog; but this work is striking and interesting. I especially like the simple, stark ones, like “New People.”

Props for putting out your poetry and your amazing blogs but your poetry is more like a blog that you have broken up into lines and some times stanzas than poetry you’re missing that poetic voice. Don’t getme wrong you have some really great ideas but your voice is in writing is for blogging and narratives and journalism (and can i say your voice is pretty amazing ) but not poetry. But keep on writing becuase you still have an amazing voice for writing.

Just came upon your blog. Keep writing, Mary – at times it can be a cruel salvation, and other times it becomes a blissful excuse to feel everything but numbness. I’ll be checking up on your progress… and if you ever feel like getting a giggle from some vulgar verse (or just have a hankering to listen to some good tunes) you can check out some of my own work on my site.

Your poem Quiet New York really spoke to me. It shows how we need to appreciate the things in life that are less common, less noticeable. Most people would have gone for the eccentric and ecleptic New York, but you showcased a more vulnerable side. This is right up there with my all time favorite, Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130. Keep up the wonderful writing.

I read your blog for the first time last night. It is very good and your poetry is excellent. I have had a life, I suppose, like the Old Man with the bag. Life has been good and life has also had its many trials and tribulations. I’ve done much in my life. So much, that I know I can write a few books if I try. Now having read your writings, I know I will. You have inspired me. I still feel like the Old Man with the Bag, but then again, maybe things will change a little for me. Thank you so very much, from a life that you have touched. I wish you good health and that you continue to help others in you special way.

I know of two writers who are battling with chronic diseases like yours. Each one of them is unique, have unbelievable talent, and an insight that astonishes everybody who reads whatever they’ve written. I love how you write and I love how you see the world. I’m sorry for all your health problems, but I applaud you. You’re such an amazingly strong person, it’s crazy.
This comment is getting cliched and repetitive. Goodbye, and keep writing.

I’m a snob, but this only means that I like awesome things, and think that shit things exist only to make the excellent things even more fabulous. Real snobs would look down on me for this, but, as snobs, it really is their job. I think your poetry is bloody brilliant.

You have a lot of depth. I like the juxtapositions of elements throughout, lines drawn between unrelated things that blend into sometimes startling but undefined meanings. Good work. I’d like to know how old you are. The voice I hear is somewhat young, though has the aspect of a promising poet. Continue to develop your vocabulary, DON’T lose your wide open eyes.

Beautiful poetry and writing all around. I just want to say, don’t be afraid. You’re getting a ton of hits and comments today (congrats!), which may/may not be freaking you out, but is probably at least unexpected. But girl… you’ve encouraged me more than you know, and looks like many others, too. So, if a faceless stranger can give advice without sounding like a jerk… lean into it, keep going, give what only you can. The world DOES need you. People like me need you to give us a mental kick in the proverbial arse. Get it, girl. Thanks for being truly awesome.